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A Walk in the Woods and a Poem

When I walk with my daughter Maya in the woods, I’m often torn between two competing impulses. The urge to discover together and to explain — to point out the wonders of a worm or seed or changing leaf — does battle with the need for silence, for soaking it all in.

Letting Maya lead the way is a solution of sorts — she darts about, looking and poking, asking questions or not. Unlike the Waldorf teacher I spoke with this week, I don’t think facts about nature are a burden to the mind, and try to answer her — or look up new information — as I can. She is a budding naturalist, at any rate, always wondering what different animals eat, where seeds live in the dirt, and which sprouts in the lawn are the onion grass she knows she can munch on.

Amidst the lessons, though, there is still the mysterious mystery, as she put it the other day. There is a quiet place where information is not the point. And ensuring that children get into the woods in an unmediated way — and have a direct confrontation with Life (and our relevance or irrelevance to its systems) — is essential.

Years back, I wrote a poetic response to Mary Oliver’s wonderful poem, Wild Geese, that hits upon these themes, and I thought of it again recently as the spring weather has brought us more time playing outdoors.

The argument from design

begins with meticulous veins in this mulberry leaf and ends with God. But I say it’s a long way from lichen to leaf to omniscience, and in that journey one must account

for sea creatures that reproduce without sex, whatever sense that makes, and for mass extinctions, the great blow-ups and die-offs, and where does silliness come from in this telling?

It’s so serious to look at an oak and find the how and why we’re here that I can’t bear to live in such a place, under a heavy hand signing itself by virtue of its own complexity

mistaking a system which lives and dies with reasons for living and dying — origins, organs knit together, entangled like only tautologies are. Too easy lessons stolen

from the absent quiet of the woods, or unwitting peace of geese and wind above a pond. I fail to see how it explains the central flaw of us, our

pained self-consciousness. A garden without us is no feat at all, yet there’s no hint of plans for us inside

that vague, enormous mind. Instead, the delicate web, reliant on knowing all reasons. And why make something so delightful just to hand it,